


Can't Help Lovin' That Man

by Papillonae



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1920s, Countries Using Human Names, Dancing and Singing, Domestic Fluff, Drabble, M/M, Musicals, Show Boat, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 23:54:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14943722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papillonae/pseuds/Papillonae
Summary: Missisippi, 1928. Alfred receives a new record for his Victrola. Upon trying to serenade his houseguest Toris with showtunes, he winds up being serenaded instead.





	Can't Help Lovin' That Man

**Author's Note:**

> I would just like to give a BIG shoutout to Jules (who has a *secret* account on Ao3, so I won't say anything!) because it was his headcanon that inspired this little ficlet, which I wrote on my downtime at work. This is my first official attempt at writing America/Lithuania, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> -Papi

It had been an unremarkable, but warm Mississippi afternoon. The magnolia trees outside were in full bloom, all white petals in overgrown tree groves, and their sweet scent had invited Alfred to throw open the windows in the parlor room. The breeze was just cool enough to cut through the muggy heat.

He resumed his spot on the floor of the room on his hands and knees, his fingers filing through the dust jackets of 78s he had kept in a small bookcase. Ever since he’d acquired a Victrola, Alfred had been obsessed with creating a space just to listen to his music. He would still frequent performance halls like Vaudeville if his work took him Northward, and he would half-walk, half-dance among southerners at the evening jazz and swing parties.

Alfred never had an ear for music, but it never stopped him from singing… not in the least.

He pulled out his most recently acquired 78 – a recording of the musical _Show Boat_. Most of his record discs had been musicals and music from the Great American Songbook of Tin Pan Alley. But more than anything, Alfred had found a deep love of Broadway musicals: the energy, the crooning, the charisma... all of it absolutely amazed him.

He had begged Arthur to send him that particular record by parcel, a feat that had to be done at least two other times before, as the shellac discs kept breaking in transit. Alfred remembered the third and final attempt of opening the package with the record wrapped meticulously in dozens of sweaters. Arthur had written him a snide letter, something about sending him up “Ol’ Man River” for the delivery expenses… a terribly conceived joke, but it still made him laugh.

Alfred gently rolled the disc into his hands, grinning at the memory of the letter. The pressure of Arthur’s handwriting was so intense. It was worth the trouble. Especially for _Show Boat_.

He laid the disc on the turntable, carefully laid the needle at the edge of the record, and then set the disc in motion with the hand crank. The Victrola crackled to life, and the music began to softly play and fill the parlor. Alfred smiled and slowly lowered himself onto the carpet. He hummed along until the warm air and the scent of magnolias lulled him into a midday nap.

* * *

Mississippi was far different from New York, and Toris took great note of that change of pace. The bustling of the city, especially the nightlife, had dazzled him. And now he was standing in the kitchen, watching the white petals of the magnolias blowing away, scattering across the grass like snow in the summertime. With the exception of the humidity, staying with Alfred in Mississippi reminded him greatly of home.

Toris had just finished preparing their supper: a chicken stew with wild rice and vegetables. He was cleaning out mixing bowls in the sink, when he heard an odd sort of singing coming from the parlor room:

 

 _“_ _Oh listen, sister_

_I love my mister man and I can’t tell you why_

_There ain’t no reason why I should love that man…”_

 

Toris chuckled softly to himself. _Show Boat_ again. Alfred had taken him to see a performance revue of it several weeks ago when they were still in New York City, and since then he hadn’t been able to get those songs out of his head. Arthur had even sent Alfred a record of a cast recording.

He went to fetch Alfred for dinner. The singing had become very loose humming as he approached. Right as he crossed the threshold of the parlor room, Toris was snatched up in a whirl, and soon he found himself slowly dancing with Alfred. The motion knocked the air from his lungs.

“Why hello there,” Alfred sang, all playful smiles and coy teasing.

“Alfred, dinner’s—whoa!”

He laughed as Toris stumbled clumsily in their impromptu sway. Holding him steady by the hand, Alfred started to sing again:

 

“ _The chimney’s smokin’_

_The roof is leakin’ in, but he don’t seem to care_

_He can be happy with jus’ a sip of gin…_ ”

 

Toris never thought of Alfred as an awful singer, exactly – he had a warble in his voice that shook him a little, and he went off-key a little… okay, he went off-key a lot. But at the very least, the man knew how to entertain.

He felt Alfred’s breath on his ear as he leaned in and sang, almost at a whisper: “ _I even loves him when his kisses got gin_ …”

Toris felt himself overheating, felt the corners of his lips twitch into a smile.

 _Oh yes._ The man could entertain.

He began to match the rhythm of Alfred’s steps. The music from the Victrola continued to play softly, almost phasing in and out through the crackle. Toris eased into the dance little by little – his hand, raised and clasped in Alfred’s, while his other hand slipped up and rested easily on his shoulder. Alfred had his other arm wrapped around Toris’s waist, pulling him in closer as they circled the rug.

Alfred smiled down at him, and when he sang the next verse, Toris couldn’t help but join in:

 

“ _Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly,_

_I gotta love that man ‘till I die,_

_Can’t help lovin’ that man of mine…”_

 

His heart fluttered a little at the sight of Alfred’s growing smile. A silly sort of nervousness overcame him as Alfred spun and turned him gently in their dance. Toris continued to sing:

 

“ _Tell me he’s lazy, tell me he’s slow,_

_Tell me I’m crazy, maybe, I know,_

_Can’t help lovin’ that man of mine…_

_When he goes away, that’s a rainy day,_

_And when he comes back, that day is fine,_

_The sun will shine…_ ”

 

It wasn’t until he was twirled back into Alfred’s arms that he realized he was the only one of the two of them singing. Toris’s face burned.

“Hey, I thought this was a duet,” he said with a nervous laugh.

“It was,” Alfred said, “until you started to sing!”

“Wh-what’s wrong with my singing?”

Alfred's smile fell and he looked worried. Toris couldn’t escape his searching eyes – eyes so impossibly blue... eyes that were like an eager child's.

“Nothing! Nothing’s wrong with it, Toris… why, you’re a fantastic singer! Why, just now, I was in awe! You’re a regular Gene Austin!" And he sang a sample of Gene Austin, albeit a little off-key - " _It was just a garden in the rain..._ " He laughed nervously, taking a turn for the apologetic: " Aw, shoot, I really didn’t mean it like—”

In spite of Alfred's sincere apologies, Toris laughed softly. It was a laughter that warmed his chest and made his smile tremble and overflow. He took his hand from Alfred’s and gently brought his arms around his shoulders in a light embrace. When he leaned his head in close, he noticed how Alfred smelled of magnolias and inescapable summer.

“Thank you,” Toris said as they continued to sway with each other, “I know you meant well… I was just thinking... of how it’d been so long since I last felt this happy…”

And Alfred, not knowing how else to respond, only smiled and pressed his lips to Toris’s forehead. They both sang and hummed the rest of the song together, gently laughing and awkwardly stepping around each other’s feet in the parlor room.

 

" _He can come home as late as can be,_

_Home without him ain't no home to me,_

_Can't help lovin' that man of mine._ "

 

With a quiet crackle, the record came to a halt. The stew was still warm in the pot. But even without music, they could stay like this, dancing and singing and happy, for at least a little while longer.


End file.
